


Pride & Prejudice

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Awkwardness, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: In which Junno knows a thing or two about pride and absolutely nothing about Nakamaru’s embarrassing secret. Probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : For [](http://jtriskell.livejournal.com/profile)[**jtriskell**](http://jtriskell.livejournal.com/)  oth for the [](http://help-pilipinas.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_pilipinas**](http://help-pilipinas.livejournal.com/) project and for how patient she's been with me during this alarming wait. I don't really know why this took me so long; I loved writing it and I missed writing Junno/Nakamaru so frickin much. I have to thank you, [](http://jtriskell.livejournal.com/profile)[**jtriskell**](http://jtriskell.livejournal.com/) because you are so very much the best and you've given me the opportunity to write this. So here you go, I really hope this is what you wanted because you deserve a mountain of gifts for this wait.

 

 

Much thank yous also to my resident g-doc assistant and beta [](http://ayame-hadouken.livejournal.com/profile)[**ayame_hadouken**](http://ayame-hadouken.livejournal.com/). Even in these strange times, you're totally my rock in fandom <3 And to [](http://dusk037.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dusk037.livejournal.com/)**dusk037** for being the cheerleader I don't even deserve. Girl your tweets are rich with love and your halfway point read-through infused me with so much writer-mojo. You're ridiculously excellent.

Finally to all the tagumaru fans. I know you're out there; you deserve more fic always <3

Love you all. Enjoy~

 

 

 

 

 

 

A _midnight_ party.

Taguchi’s invitation was explicit about this.

**[Let’s have a midnight party! We’ll have the whole bar to ourselves and drinks will be free! A midnight party so it starts at 12:00 a.m. (lol). Bring yourself and a big smile! See you then!!!]**

Until the very moment Nakamaru stepped through the door of the pub, he hadn’t been all that sure he would be attending.

Having considered it at irreconcilable length, Nakamaru agreed that it made sense. The year was nearly over and as far as what they had to show for it? They were now four haphazard quilt patches to stitch together all over again. So just maybe _that_ was the reason Nakamaru was prepared to acknowledge the positive principle of it.

There was only this one minor problem…

 

 

*

 

 

Nakamaru saw it like this choreographed art form, the way two people could see each other nearly every day and somehow manage to avoid any opportunity for eye contact. Nakamaru had it perfected now after many a tedious mid-conversation dip, frowning at spaces around and above Taguchi’s face and Taguchi responding with that evocative vague smile of his, eyes darting somewhere within the vicinity of Nakamaru’s shirt collar or buttons, eclipsing, with a masterful blank, Nakamaru’s not-looks with an intent not-look of his own. They would _never_ look at one another ever again. It was so terribly awkward, but it was just as much perfect.

Yet, oh, now there would be _this party_ and Nakamaru despaired so much. _So_ much. As much as their little shared phenomenon--this _thing_ they were doing together and not-- was a recent development counting two weeks ago, Nakamaru had developed something like a morbid complacency. It was in his general state of unease but complacency that he knew he would never have to deal with this problem, and that Taguchi-- contrary to Nakamaru’s former beliefs-- actually did possess some form of propriety. He must have in some way understood that there were just particular things you oughtn’t discuss with a bandmate regardless of what you might have seen _accidentally because you **forgot to knock**_.

And just for the record, it really wasn’t Nakamaru’s fault any of this was happening.

They used to hang out, he and Taguchi. Not a lot; just enough to toe the status line between friends and coworkers who sometimes did things not entirely work related.

They played video games, online games, silly word games in the car. They used to go out into the woods, trek up side by side into the mountains with their air guns and camouflage. Taguchi liked to play pretend as much as Nakamaru secretly did and for hours at a time, Nakamaru was a war lord and Taguchi, an unscrupulous soldier still full to the brim with giggles, but would easily take a bullet for him.

Sometimes Taguchi would say things and against his better judgement, Nakamaru would say things back and there’d be an almost-fight, but there was simply no fighting with a person who hopped between opinions like a man trying to remain afloat on several sheets of thin ice. Really, there was nothing like spending a frustrating hour trying to make a point where a point wasn’t wanted to bestow Nakamaru with some intellectual humility.

Then, other times Taguchi would writhe himself breathless with laughter and it was always all right when Nakamaru had him laughing. This had to be because it meant Nakamaru could wipe at his eyes and hiccough helplessly over stupidity and it wouldn’t mean anything. Not to him and never to Taguchi.

However, despite it all. Despite all the things he had found in Taguchi that he liked, one afternoon had to go and ruin everything and he would very likely reiterate, that it _wasn’t_ his fault.

 

 

 

*

 

 

It was a little bit his fault.

As undeniable circumstance played out, Nakamaru _did_ invite Taguchi over that day. He was meant to arrive sometime after a dinner which he’d said he’d be leaving from around nine p.m. There was just no way a dinner at a restaurant with other people would ever finish within an hour. Nakamaru had had the day off and he’d stayed indoors for most of it…

To cut completely to the chase, it wasn’t a premeditated act. Nakamaru sometimes just needed to release some steam that, being a single man in his-- now-- thirties, he shouldn’t feel ashamed of.

And he _wasn’t_ ashamed anyway!

He was in the privacy of his bedroom. Sitting on the very edge of his bed with his eyes shut, he felt a bit like he could take his time. There were no dot-connects to put to it. He had his hand down his sweats and he’d hoped to get off before the clock struck nine. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but lately he’d _had_ some problems. It actually used to work for Nakamaru to imagine a faceless being with a smooth pair of hands and an even better mouth, but that got so dull and the issue with using someone faceless is that when his mind was clamouring for some tethered grasp for ‘just right’ that same faceless being would always quickly evolve into someone tangible, real, and a couple of sequential incidents where he’d cut off with a mental gasp of “Oh god, no. Abort!”

Then there was that one time he’d just left Taguchi’s apartment, came home and just _needed_ it. Perfectly natural. He was in the shower and he’d meant it to be just a quick one-off. He’d been imagining something vague, a series of personal favourites to make it go by quickly and then suddenly every vague concept had a name attached to it. Taguchi was breathing in his ear and trembling under him, everything clenched and sweaty and Nakamaru couldn’t stop there and he would’ve hated it so much if he hadn’t come so hard with a moan he couldn’t swallow.

Nakamaru would likely posit to any audience of these unsavoury fantasies that it had really _nothing_ to do with a full-on attraction to Taguchi. On the other hand, he’d be mad to try to pretend the man wasn’t classically aesthetic. Symmetrical features, easy smile, and a gait that practically propositioned a terrible mess that Nakamaru hadn’t known he wanted. It was all general. If Nakamaru were _attracted_ , he’d have put a name to him that day.

Looking back on it, he couldn’t possibly say what it was _exactly_ his imaginary ideal of Taguchi was except there was the remembered slope of his back, lifted from memories of swimming, onsens and those inexplicable shirtless moments Taguchi was wont to have. Nakamaru had seen all of him in different increments on separate occasions and then there was that vague, mentally-jarring backflip incident...

 

 

…

 

...Nakamaru remembered _all_ those instants and had come to the regular habit of piecing those parts together and creating his own vivid image. A derivatively made-up being with a begging arch he wanted to be the reason for, a hot tongue tracing up his neck between distressed tones of desperation, breathless with his name on the tip of their—this _version_ of Taguchi’s—end. Nakamaru gripped himself and slid his fist up in jerky patterns, teeth gritted, his hips kicking out to the pull of this image, imagined palms scraping wet up his back. Perfect.

It all happened when he was right there in that corner of his vision and everything had fragmented together. He’d only opened his eyes to the room for jagged seconds before he came and for those glimmering, shock-ecstasy seconds he wasn’t stretched out over an _image_ of Taguchi, but staring at the real thing. A _real_ —much more dressed for dinner in a sport jacket—Taguchi stood in the doorway, one arm resting on the door’s frame like he’d been standing there awhile and was more inclined to scrutinise the picture Nakamaru made. It was a complex myriad mess, the raking lust jarring him back to earth too early and the startled look on Taguchi’s face, eyes taking in all of Nakamaru lying sprawled and holding himself on the edge of the bed.

He’d breathed in his last, suffocating on an abrupt and endless mortification as Taguchi mumbled, “Oh, god, I’m _so_ sorry…” like he’d only just then realised what he’d been watching. Then only once Nakamaru had sat up, Taguchi had dropped his arm from the doorjamb to turn and make a swift exit.

It was there as he lay panting, still with a firm, sticky hold on himself that Nakamaru heard his front door _click_ shut like Taguchi had made it a point to leave really quietly, had tiptoed out merely as though he’d intruded on someone sleeping. It left Nakamaru in a state of frozen outrage, disbelief and overwhelming shame. It was _more_ than humiliating and he would never be able to look Taguchi in the face ever again.

So he didn’t. And Taguchi didn’t. And they weren’t going to. The trade-off, though, was that whatever they’d had going on before The Incident had all come to this sudden, soundless halt in the same anticlimactic manner with which most occurrences in Nakamaru’s life took place.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

The following weeks were a frustrated inner monologue summarised in one annoyed stream of thought as Nakamaru worked tirelessly not to meet Taguchi’s gaze and not to flush when Taguchi aimed a comment in his direction.

It would ruin everything. He was mad. Stark, and unforgivably mad to play with the idea and let it go this far. The guy was walking vanity and he probably knew it was all about him. Or he didn’t and this was all ridiculous.

And Taguchi probably hated him.

Or he’d liked him before this...

He’d hate him and still smile like Nakamaru was more deserving of sympathy than anything else.

It would _ruin_ everything.

 

 

*

 

 

So now this party then. It was going to be held at a private pub and Nakamaru had convinced himself this morning that he wouldn’t, _shouldn’t_ attend. He had also spent the remainder of the morning and the afternoon feeling irrevocably guilty.

Because the timing for it was paramount. it would be _right_ for them to have their own little private get-together-- a sort of a KAT-TUN exclusive; five people, yes because despite every criticism Nakamaru stored intimately over his image of Taguchi, he knew Taguchi would have mailed _everyone_.. Taguchi wouldn’t spare on decorum. At the very least, he could count on Taguchi for that. Just. If they were never all right again after this, at least a one or two bottle gathering would fix the five of them somehow…

Yet, still. He had puzzled for days and days because as things stood, Taguchi shouldn’t even want to host anything that’d involve Nakamaru either. Well that was what Nakamaru was convinced of before the cheery mail had popped up on his screen.

So there Nakamaru stood, one foot in the door, ready to brave the world’s most awkward gathering for the greater good.

The same gathering which would serve to work _better_ if at that very moment it weren’t simply Nakamaru standing in a doorway looking right at Taguchi; the both of them completely alone.

“Erm... the others?” Nakamaru said as he looked around.

The place was bereft; chairs and stools flipped and packed on top of tables with only the low-hanging lamps on brass hooks and their soft yellow light spotlighing and pooling over the naked bronze-patterned linoleum floor. There was really only two strange-looking wooden billiard tables, a full bar and then Taguchi, all smiles in a plain white button down and all legs in a pair of infuriatingly tight jeans. He’d even rolled up the sleeves in that way he did so his biceps looked larger. Nakamaru took all of this in while mentally beginning a methodical and slow descent into abject despair.

Because he’d never been more attracted to someone so incandescently inappropriate.

All pointed accentuation--god help him-- of Taguchi’s features aside, the summation of what Nakamaru was looking at right then looked nothing like a gathering This was a private… something with Nakamaru’s fated companion looking like the composite Fruit of the Loom advertisement.

“Where’s … _everyone else_?" he repeated succinctly and Taguchi just shrugged, turned and bent over the table, shoulders hard with purpose and calves stretching a distressing line up the back of his jeans. He aimed his cue stick over the billiard table, shooting the white billiard ball at a striped fifteen. It skidded across the felt, hit its target, ricocheting off several more. It was a pretty good play, but then Nakamaru was no expert and he totally wasn’t watching.

“I sent a group text,” Taguchi remarked, looking almost artfully smug. “This is my friend’s bar and he lent it to me for the night; thought it’d be fun.”

Nakamaru determinedly began to examine the décor, a bit miffed at the stuffed deer on a mount above the bar, the fur-lined chairs and the clear and purposeful amount of scrubbed wooden furniture. The horned bronze helmets pegged to each wall take him aback for a moment.

Altogether It looked like the owner was going for a cartoonish Viking theme, but had given up halfway before going positively mad tucking a jukebox over by a bare dance floor with a sudden leather lounge motif. Nakamaru already disapproved. He lingered by the entrance, almost certain that if none of the others had shown up, they probably weren’t planning to.

Taguchi shot a look at him as he rounded the billiard table, thrilled and expectant at the same time. None of it made sense; there was absolutely no reason for Taguchi to be looking at him that way. Taguchi took another blind shot, a green striped ball bounced over a solid nine, which was clearly meant to make Nakamaru applaud. He frowned instead. “So it’s just us, is it?”

He got a nod.

Now Nakamaru was deeply annoyed. Not that it was really Taguchi’s fault the others weren’t going to show up, but when it came to matters like this, Nakamaru had always been of the opinion that Taguchi liked to set himself up for rejection. He made little to no effort on his approach, didn’t appeal the idea to the others in any way that’d seem practical, and…

To put things more precisely, Nakamaru was _more_ upset that he’d secretly thought this was a good idea and that the others hadn’t. Which of course would mean he was actively reinforcing whatever Taguchi probably thought he felt. It _wasn’t_ like that anymore and he was going to soundly disillusion him before the night was out.

“Right,” he announced staunchly as he shut the door behind him. He shook his jacket off and strode determinedly toward a table near the billiard area. Taguchi, previously bent over the pool table, straightened, cue stick in hand as he observed Nakamaru pulling down one heavy, fur-lined wooden chair from its respective table.

Nakamaru took his seat and folded one leg over the other, resting one arm on the seat beside him. He fixed a look on Taguchi meaning to convey with that single look that there was to be no discussion over the situation; that he was only here to stay for as many drinks as he felt like and that would be that.

Taguchi’s smile grew, spread like a swelling pool of liquid gold. “I’ll mix you a drink,” he said, backing up in a series of happy steps to the cue rack. He leaned his cue stick down and beelined quickly for the bar.

The silence between them couldn’t be worse. Really. Of course they weren’t going to talk about work. Nakamaru craned his neck when the sound of rattling iron filled the pub. Taguchi was pushing up the cage around the bar and slipping behind the counter. “You can just—“

“No, _no_ , Nakamaru. I invited you here, I’m in charge of the drinks,” Taguchi cut in cheerily. “I’ve dabbled a bit in bartending and drink-mixing this year.”

“Of course you have,” Nakamaru returned dryly. Taguchi wasn’t even the least bit put-out that he was about to spend the evening with just him. Nakamaru briefly mused on whether Taguchi might be better at deflecting a bad situation than he was...

“Once you try this,” Taguchi called, pulling down a few mixers and a tall bottle of white rum. “You won’t wanna go home.”

Nakamaru wasn’t sure whether to laugh. “Right,” he said gravely instead.

 

 

*

 

 

Skittles. The tall drink, a deep candy orange, reminded Nakamaru of a handful of sour skittles, if you got every colour in the bag. A mix of that and white rum and Nakamaru was already on his second. Taguchi had quickly mixed him his refill with a nice consistent level of enthusiasm when Nakamaru had held up his empty glass, with a murmur of “That’s pretty good.”

Now Nakamaru was at the bottom of his second glass and Taguchi had found the jukebox. It was with a sort of frustrated sense of self-possessed resolve that Nakamaru chose to slow down his sips. It was unacceptably _more_ delicious than his first glass.

Click, flap, click, flap, click…

So vast was this very space between them, tables and chairs and warm bronze flooring; there might as well be a thick line segregating the pair of them on each side of the awful bar.

Taguchi-- broad back in its expensive white shirt curved with shoulders hunched in the name of diligent concentration-- rested an arm over the top of the jukebox, hitting the scroll button with its persistent clicks of that large squarish button followed every time by the flap of album covers falling face up after a lazy arc, as he hummed content murmurs to himself; song titles and co-opted media opinions about their artists no doubt. Nakamaru was already embarrassed by his own silence.

“What songs are there?” he asked carefully, a determined effort to cross a line between them he’d never worried about before this night.

The album covers kept flipping and Taguchi didn’t reply. Hadn’t heard him. Taguchi wouldn’t ignore him. Nakamaru opened his mouth to repeat himself, yet found the question lacking any real substance that could make it worth repeating.

Nakamaru lifted the glass to his lips, tilted his head back and stared for an aggrieved moment and the bottom of another empty glass.

As the first bars of ‘Chocolate Disco’ began to play, Taguchi spun around with an elated look, arms almost-- but not quite-- spread as though he fully expected Nakamaru to leap from his chair and celebrate the manifestation of a _Perfume_ song on an electronic jukebox.

He didn’t, though, and Taguchi moved on with an articulate laugh. He reached for his tall beer glass as he bobbed his head not a little gleefully to the quick chorus. Nakamaru watched him tip his head back, swallow a whole half in a single gulp.

“How many is that?” Nakamaru asked. He figured he’d keep trying at this. Maybe they’d be friends again. He would …not hate the idea.

Taguchi gave a sigh only real lager fans manage after a gulp like that. “Just my third,” he replied before leaning around the bar counter to set his glass under the beer tap. “Fourth,” he added, bringing his full glass up, though it was mostly foam.

Nakamaru nodded. It wasn’t a contest, he thought, eyeing his empty glass a bit furtively.

He grimaced when Taguchi started a stride across the bar toward him. Nakamaru had always assessed that Taguchi had a tendency to do things a certain way when he was being observed. It made Nakamaru think of himself in the sense that his response to being intensely scrutinised was to forget entirely how to function..

On the other hand, Taguchi’s gestures, movements, and even his awkward ungraceful breaks were showy in a specific way. Nakamaru wasn’t naive enough to compare it to performing. It was more like that of a person who not only knew he was being watched, didn’t much mind, or rather enjoyed the fact. From Nakamaru’s vantage, It was really as if Taguchi knew exactly how it all looked from the hundreds of times he’d probably watched himself execute these simple and banal acts. Like he was giving his audience-- Nakamaru at present-- the time-- ah, no-- the _opportunity_ to appreciate it the same way he himself did.

Nakamaru always made certain to comply to this odd little quirk every once in a while. He’d watch. It wasn’t just some aesthete’s taste or a plain-spoken admiration—though at times it was difficult not to just _look_ and memorise a little of the more outstanding aspects. It was that he knew Taguchi in his own way. He knew that if you didn’t see almost precisely what Taguchi saw whenever he looked in the mirror, your opinion simply didn’t count.

And regardless of the fact that he was determined to quell any further erotic association he’d established with Taguchi’s body, Nakamaru was very stoic about where his opinions counted.

So he waited and watched patiently as Taguchi made his way toward him, insinuating himself with a predetermined course to a standstill, hip cocked right on the edge of Nakamaru’s table. He laid a hand on its surface before resting all weight on the heel of his palm breaking the abrupt illusion of grace with frank, awkward childishness. Nakamaru sat back in his chair to regard him, took in the full length of this towering, gangly being made of carved lines, jutting bones and the avant-garde of slim musculature.

Right. Right. Whatever.

Taguchi’s smile right then was one he’d probably use for critiquing a silver-winning Olympic medalist “Looks like you’re two behind me,” he finally offered, cheerfully scathing. “Refill?”

Nakamaru pushed his glass towards Junno’s waiting hand. “Yes please.” He smiled a little. There were a great many reasons to leave, but just one too many reasons not to. “Make it a double-shot this time.”

Taguchi responded to that with a grin like a war crime. “Those were already double-shots.”

 

 

*

 

 

Taguchi had filled a pitcher with lager and had brought that and yet another glass—fifth? Sixth?—for Nakamaru. He had also come and draped himself in a chair across from Nakamaru naturally enough. He was of course on his seventh glass; that was all well and good, but Nakamaru was a little flummoxed because he wasn’t really all that sure whether Taguchi was even a little drunk.

It was just really important because Nakamaru was actually beginning to feel a buzz, but he couldn’t free-fall into it until he knew Taguchi was at least a little bit faced first. It was a matter of parallels, really. And Nakamaru’s own self-conscious awareness of the risk of his doing anything more to humiliate himself in front of Taguchi.

Taguchi began to pour another for himself, glass tilted as he dumped the contents of his pitcher in. Nakamaru silently watched Taguchi purse his lips and accurately mimic the sound of the beer spilling into his glass. Next to the background music of yet another Perfume song, Taguchi’s steady and bubbly sound effects-- not perfectly akin to the beatboxing art, but certainly skilled enough to merit a repeat performance-- only added a surrealistic value to their persisting awkward silence.

And even then, Nakamaru still wasn’t sure if Taguchi was drunk or not.

He looked around the bar. He’d never learned to play pool and to be quite honest, Taguchi had ruined it for him. He would really rather sit here in complete silence than to have Taguchi give him a crash-course in anything. The option list was thinning; he really ought to just express his gratitude over the invite, cut his losses and get out of there with their unfulfilling relationship still intact.

Then he spotted the dartboard.

“There’s a dartboard,” he informed Junno.

Taguchi didn’t look up from his foamy drink. “Loser has to do whatever the winner says,” was his way too-quick reply.

 

 

*

 

“You are still _soooo_ bad at this.”

Nakamaru was definitely tipsy and a little happy about it despite all detracting circumstances. “No one can hurt me like you,” he dead-panned in a quaint sarcastic slur, squinting at the-- probably like a metre away-- dartboard.

Taguchi began to laugh raucously. Something to do with how Nakamaru had just braced himself on the bar counter to keep his aim steady. Probably. He was definitely going to get this one. All he’d need is a six at this point; he could accumulate and beat Taguchi’s current twenty-eight.

Since when did people play darts from this far away? Nakamaru was practically _throwing_ it across the room. Dangerous bar games. The stakes had never been higher…

Miss.

“... _sooo_ bad at this,” Taguchi reported to the empty room at large with a high chortle.

Nakamaru backtracked to the table, picked up his glass and downed his eighth--yes, it had to be eighth—unless Taguchi had mixed him one during his last turn-- drink. It didn’t matter.

Taguchi raised a dart, didn’t even blink. Bullseye. His eyes were shining when he twirled around to share a look of triumph that burned like vitriol in Nakamaru’s mouth. “I...I win.”

Nakamaru hated him. Sometimes he liked him, could have really learned to like him intensely--maybe-- but right then he viciously and so very _bitterly_ hated him.

“Best three out of five!” he snapped, stalking for the board to retrieve his darts. Taguchi would taste defeat. Nakamaru would make him do something so humiliating and it would cancel out any preceding humiliation Nakamaru might have suffered and then he would laugh at him until that maniacally, childish grin vanished and they’d be even. And then...

Taguchi gestured for him to go ahead, eyes squinted malevolently. A whole other being when competition struck.

True vengeance was beyond the details, Nakamaru thought.

 

 

*

 

 

Every curse in the dictionary wouldn’t cover the expansive list Nakamaru was shouting through as his last dart out of five games bounced off the wooden edge of the board and tumbled down the wall to land pathetically on its side with a faint clack against the bronze floor.

Taguchi collapsed against the bar, knees bent and long arms sprawled over the counter as he cackled in pitched tones. His eyes were shut and his usually chiseled features were scrunched with mirth. He was practically in tears.

Nakamaru kicked a chair, watched it tip over on its side with a heavy slam. Taguchi finally slid off the bar counter; dropped to his knees, hands clapped over his face, guffawing helplessly into his palms.

“Oh,” Taguchi cried, practically sobbing with his laughter. “You’ve just made me the happiest…”

“Yeah, sure. Well, It’s just a game.” Nakamaru bent to pick up his chair, surprised that bending over had him teetering already. “It’s just a game,” he repeated, unsure whether he’d already said it.

“And the best thing is…” Taguchi continued, raising a shining, joyful, tear-filled gaze to him. “I’ve already decided what I’m gonna make you do.”

He was suddenly frozen in time, floating in his own intoxicated buzz and a memory-thrill of himself stretched out on his back, the sharp curl of his orgasm shaking through him like explosives. He felt again the jarring shock of spotting Taguchi where he hadn’t been a moment ago and in these silent seconds, he could now remember the way Taguchi had propped himself up in the doorway to watch at length with an expression that gave off nothing but a fleeting curiosity and a deep, careful scrutiny. He could still very much see the silhouette he had cut in his doorway from the brighter light of his hallway.

There…was no coming back from it, was there?

Nakamaru watched Taguchi subsist into a deep, rich set of chuckles as he wiped at his eyes, and could only really take in the more current, but still sweet and burning sight of Taguchi’s bright round eyes with his own slowly burgeoning distress. “Then…would you mix me another drink first?”

 

 

*

 

 

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Taguchi gasped. “You...Nakamaru, this is amazing.”

Nakamaru simply glared. It was a frank expression to make because a sizeable part of him wasn’t cooperating with him. Honestly, even Nakamaru thought this was funny. “You had a whole universe of things you could make me do and you go with this?”

Taguchi held up his phone, stepping back to take in the view. “Oh nothing could top this, I promise you.”

He was standing atop the bar counter Taguchi had lifted one of the brass helmets with horns off the wall, which Nakamaru was currently wearing complete with a makeshift cape. He was put-out, but the truth was he was just a tiny bit enamoured with how conniving Taguchi actually could be. Nakamaru had never been sure why, but he liked the sneaky ones best.

And right there the opening bars--the obnoxious royal trumpets-- of **Samurai Love Attack** started their blare around the pub. Taguchi raised his phone as he stepped back to get a better vantage with the widest of grins.

“You gotta make it convincing, kay?” he murmured up at him.

Nakamaru knew how to lip-sync convincingly despite anything anyone had to say and he didn’t need Taguchi telling him that. He’d seen him perform this in a variety of ways, in front of adoring audiences, in the corner during a lull at a party, and even loudly with gestures too wide for a small karaoke booth.

Taguchi cheered when Nakamaru brandished the bottle-cap opener that was supposed to be sword of sorts. He had set the phone upright on a bar stool and was currently prompting the ‘choreography’. Nakamaru kept laughing.

And now in this moment, he understood. He almost wished he could have crowds spelling out love for him as he did something this unimaginably silly. Maybe. The lamplights were blurry and the lyrics were even fuzzier and Nakamaru was certain he hadn’t been actually singing a moment ago.

Taguchi took a gulp of beer out of his glass and waved his arm, mouth full. Nakamaru was caught up in gasps and the room was hot. It was just the two of them but it was practically a concert performance.

_”....If it can be scattered, then let’s watch it scatter!”_

“Yeah!” Taguchi shouted at him, raising his glass.

 

 

*

 

Nakamaru thought he could have lived not knowing what a one-man standing ovation might be like. As the final guitar riff streamed through the pub and he cried ‘L-O-V-E ATTACK!” with almost effortless enthusiasm, swaying off his center of balance, Taguchi was bouncing on his feet, pumping his fist between claps and howling at him.

Well, he knew now.

 

 

*

 

 

“You’re… such a lot of fun, Nakamaru,” Taguchi told him, looking down at his phone as if pointedly addressing it or as if he was too drunk to tell the difference. “I don’t know why I haven’t told you before.”

“You’ve told me before,” Nakamaru replied affably. “Or well, I just know...”

“Mm…”

Nakamaru looked at Taguchi sideways; looked at the flush of his cheek and stone-stillness of his features when he was thinking. He wanted to ask something but couldn’t remember what.

Taguchi’s throat flexed with a contemplative swallow before he began a slurring, carefully honest mess of, “You know, sometimes there’s things you want to have said to someone, and then you don’t get to.”

Nakamaru was thinking of what the others would say. How long he’d have to hear about this night reported like a fond, horrifying anecdote and all Nakamaru would be able to think of was this moment, resting in the afterglow, Taguchi beside him already swimming in their mad memory and just on the beginnings of a smile Nakamaru already knew he liked

“If you ever tell anyone,” Nakamaru mumbled, lying on his back. The ceiling was spinning like a friendly pinwheel and Taguchi was humming. He’d switched to bottled lager, the edge of its rim on his lip as he fiddled with his phone.

Nakamaru raised his eyebrows, licking his lips, aware that he might be wanting another drink soon. The bar counter was surprisingly wide and one leg was cast off onto a bar stool. Every inch of his body felt like a lovely jelly, as he relaxed pointedly into the after-effect of drunkenly shouting at a bar full of no one. “If you ever tell anyone...” he tried again.

Taguchi wasn’t listening at all. When he looked back up at Nakamaru, pop music was coming from his phone, a familiar tune and he smiled. Nakamaru thought suddenly of Koki with a sharp pang as he watched Taguchi begin a simple, kind of beatific smile, born like the beginning of a long story.

“Doggy boys,” he whispered like a secret and Nakamaru burst out laughing, an uneven sound.

 

 

*

 

They were looping a Michael Jackson album on the jukebox. The chorus of _Smooth Criminal_ filtered through the speakers and Taguchi was dancing now. Seemed an innocuous thing to do at an hour like this. Two a.m? Three? Nakamaru watched Taguchi slide across the linoleum floor on his toes, light like he was floating across on strings, thumbs hooked in his jeans. Clearly he’d learned more than a thing or two from Higashiyama-san. Nakamaru made an observing sound of approval.

Completely lost in his own world, Taguchi ran his index finger and thumb down his shirt buttons, undid the lower three and at a particularly sharp beat, he spun, letting his shirt fly, baring an abrupt stretch of stomach skin.

Nakamaru, bereft of things to do besides stare while feeling like a deliberate creep, pulled out his phone, switched on the camera and hit record.

“I’m sending this to everyone,” he informed him, smiling.

Taguchi sent him a look, a bit like a lazy glow just over his shoulder as he swayed his hips. His eyes were glazed drunk, and his smile had a showiness to it that was different than the everyday. “Promise?” he said and--was that a genuine smirk?

Nakamaru felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Junno knows a thing or two about pride and absolutely nothing about Nakamaru’s embarrassing secret. Probably.

It had definitely hit somewhere near dawn. Nakamaru checked his phone: **ten to four**.

“...was scared to ask you here..”

The windows were still dark but there was a decided condensation on the glass. He leaned back from where he was sitting and he made instant contact with Taguchi’s shoulder. The silky fringe off the side of his head brushed Nakamaru’s cheek when he turned a ways to address this question.

“We’re all scared!” Nakamaru informed him philosophically and a tad loudly..

Their contexts were jumbling together because sitting on a bar floor was like deconstructing something between the both of them. Taguchi’s hand was resting on the step near him, fingertips curled; they’d be touching if Nakamaru moved his just an inch. He did and Taguchi didn’t seem to notice.

It made him think of everything he’d been scared of before he’d walked into this bar four hours ago. Taguchi keeping away from him, adhering to Nakamaru’s avoidance like it was easy; easier than it had been for him.

It all seemed so meaningless now. Taguchi was beside him; he was warm and comfortable ...and warm.

Slurring. Sounding silly and serene all at once. “Why dun...we play anymore, Nakamaru?”

A flash image. Taguchi’s eyes in the dark fixed on him like two channels of thought, raking over his prostrate form on his bed, gasping, shivering with fantasies, and compromised. Still, in between the now worn image, Nakamaru had become uninhibited; he knew how he felt and while he’d reasoned that this was just an infatuation; he knew deep down that Taguchi was the sort of person you could like such a terrible amount and worse still that he’d let you.

So there, under the bleary intoxication of the drink on his breath and having his head resting on Taguchi’s shoulder; while feeling the turn of muscle against his ribs and Taguchi’s tentative, lazy smile over these softer thoughts, Nakamaru breathed deep and pretended not to have heard him.

He didn’t want to talk about it and he didn’t want to leave and he didn’t want Taguchi to think any less of him. Nakamaru sat up, made a generous effort to twist slowly so he’d be facing him while not tipping him over.

Gravity worked like a petulant thing. Taguchi’s ear knocked into his nose.

“Ow, goddammit!”.

When Nakamaru was finally sitting cross-legged across from him, Taguchi’s eyes were hooded, glimmering over a close-mouthed smile; he expelled a happy breath, almost a laugh when Nakamaru grabbed at his wrist.

“I’m glad you called me here,” he told him carefully, seriously. “I’m glad that no one else came.”

An aborted expression crossed Taguchi’s face at Nakamaru’s words. “Nakamaru--” he began, on the verge of applying some conscience, or ruining Nakamaru’s only window to…

“No, no, listen,” he practically hissed. It was his only chance. “Listen, Taguchi… _Junno_... I’m sorry, but I need--”

He tugged Taguchi in by the wrist, lifted his other hand and closed fingers around the lapel of Junno’s shirt. Petulant gravity helped, drew Junno right towards him despite his suddenly, wide-awake startled look. It began all clumsy against Nakamaru’s best effort to hold himself steady. His own marvel at himself, some strange mixture between elation and nerves had him near to trembling when Taguchi’s hand grasped his knee for balance, then squeezed.

So Nakamaru kissed him; was so bent on _making it happen_ that he did it too hard, and Junno’s lips crushed up against his, slack from surprise, but pliant all the same. Nakamaru breathed in and Junno’s gasp was laced with the earthy twinge of alcohol. Junno’s other hand closed over the side of his ribs and seemed to drag up instinctively, which Nakamaru liked very much; he heard the soft sound come out of him and Junno’s mouth melted into a beautiful, smug shape under Nakamaru’s lips.

They’d just started and Nakamaru already wanted to get closer. Junno was hot all over and Nakamaru could feel it searing through the fibres of his clothing. He was aware of everything at once and was dizzy from it. From Junno’s still strong grip on his knee and the way he leaned in and opened his mouth as Nakamaru closed his lips over Junno’s upper lip and arched when it was over his lower, didn’t breathe when Junno shifted closer with a cadent sound like wondering and encouragement all at once. It caused a sudden quick pressure between them to go heavier, hotter and Nakamaru felt a shiver trip up his spine when Junno’s teeth scraped the corner of his mouth and Nakamaru chased it with the dart of his tongue.

It wouldn’t matter. Because kissing him for real was nothing like any fantasy, it made his wishes seem so dull and unmiraculous because it was really him and he tasted like breath mints and lager and his lips were soft and expressive and now Nakamaru knew what the turn of that mouth felt like. He didn’t want to say anything for it; he just wanted it.

Nakamaru’s hand slipped from his lapel to the smooth curve of Junno’s throat and Junno’s mouth opened for him again, flicked his tongue up to scrape his in one clamouring, hungry motion. Felt so invasive, it was like Junno had got right inside him and claimed something for a second. Nakamaru’s chest was hammering, racing ahead of his mind so that for a very weak moment, he drowned and thought that Junno was the answer to everything.

However, then Junno pulled back, eyes a bit wide but distant, blank and addled like someone emerging from a dark wave, gasping instead of drowning. The hand gripping its firm hold on Nakamaru’s knee unclenched and let go, leaving a forlorn cold space. Nakamaru stared, breathing heavily on off-beats with him.

“What…” Junno began to say and Nakamaru shut his eyes, lost in his own incomprehension. He was thinking too quickly. It could have been _all right_ and now it wasn’t and what was left would be a collision of backpedaling. “What did you do that for?”

Nakamaru opened his eyes and sat back, licked his already dry lips. “Oh…” He forced a laugh, hollow enough to frighten himself. He examined the trim of his socks peeking out from his trousers dutifully.“I must’ve got caught in the moment, I’m _very_ sorry.”

He could hear Junno swallow, sitting that close. “That’s not what--” He shut his eyes then too, shaking himself to sense. “I didn’t know you…”

Nakamaru was already getting to his feet. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said again, wondering at himself only a moment ago, dividing every bit of himself, ready to give it all to--what? A guy he couldn’t even have admitted he liked before this night?

Taguchi clambered up after him, looking all sorts of panicked. “No, no,” he gestured almost frantically so that Nakamaru had to back into a bar stool. “There’s something....” He was making these air-soothing pats at Nakamaru as though he were trying to placate a frightened pigeon. “...something I wanted tell you, actually.”

Junno hesitated, glanced off somewhere to their right like he was casting about for a better way to say “I didn’t send a group mail,” which he announced rather lamely. He looked back at Nakamaru, his frown still on the verge of a different sort of smile like always. “It was only you.”

Nakamaru went quickly still. The silence in the pub was like a buzzing and he was feeling a bit wretched in that dissociated feeling of being drunk. Now a hurt and a horrible, childish hope bubbled to the surface. “What do you mean?” he said, knowing what he meant and had to clear his throat, embarrassed at the way his vocal chords had clenched on his voice.

“You stopped talking to me,” Junno stated, twisting in an affected flounce, dropping into the bar stool two away from Nakamaru. “You just stopped everything. We were friends, you _liked_ me, and then you just stop.” He sounded heated; a little annoyed. “That’s not a very nice thing to do to someone who...who would want the opposite.”

Junno, the silver-tongued devil, Nakamaru observed with some sarcastic outrage. “It _wasn’t like that_. I figured you wouldn’t. I mean--” he straightened in his seat, facing Junno, aware that he swayed too dangerously. “Let’s be honest, you saw what you saw and even if my door was open, I _really_ wish you’d have knocked--”

Nakamaru dropped into silence like that was that. His mouth was dry and his stomach was tight. Junno’s eyes were melting black and he just kept staring at Nakamaru like he’d done something mortifying; a flush was climbing his chest and he was looking a bit peaky all of a sudden and nothing made any sense.

“I saw what I saw,” Junno echoed, with that same peaky, on-edge look, round black eyes fixing on the floor near his shoes. “Well, yeah…”

Nakamaru turned away, making for the bar. Keeping his thoughts singular and careful so nothing at all would show on his face despite how close the floor looked or how terrifying the stuffed deer seemed in the shadowed corners where they hadn’t cast the lights. And Junno so near him, a new imprint on his lips and standing there gawking at the floor with a strange little look on his face. Nakamaru pulled down a glass to get himself some water. It didn’t seem at all fun to be drunk anymore. He’d flush it out and get a cab or something, grab something to eat and pass out; the night was long over. He’d made a mistake in staying.

“Do you think of me when you’re jerking off?”

The water was halfway down his throat but it still managed to backtrack when Nakamaru spat it all out.

Junno’s gaze was piercing when Nakamaru looked back at him; he was as red as Nakamaru felt, flushed to his roots and staring Nakamaru down so determinedly he almost looked like someone who’d been struck and was secretly eager to find out by whom.

The water was dripping down his chin, his glass clutched loosely in his hand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyeing Junno warily. “Even if that was the case, would... you even want to know something like that?”

“Yes,” He said it abruptly, almost mechanically.

Nakamaru dropped his hand to the sink, knowing he was wide eyed. “Well, the answer is...no?” he tried, then again. “No... _no_ of course not.”

Junno’s eyes immediately searched his, darted from one to the other reading something awash with ambiguities. “Then,” he murmured, distracted by whatever he could see in Nakamaru’s breathless expression. “Then I’d ask why you have this much of a problem with what I saw.”

The heat went out of his face; he knew he’d just blanched. Nakamaru looked back down at his empty glass. He exhaled in an effort to seem calm but it came out in a shudder. He should be wavering and spewing honesty in this state, but the look on Junno’s face right then--scouring for the truth right on the tip of Nakamaru’s tongue--made him jittery.

“I don’t know. I don’t know; what does it matter--just…” He was wittering and Junno wouldn’t stop looking at him, bare curiosity and a lot of something else. Something.

Junno had become disinterested in getting Nakamaru to admit it in words; he moved so suddenly, slipping down in one languid motion from his bar stool. Nakamaru, since the beginning, so very aware of how those jeans hugged proportions of Junno he didn’t like to be caught looking at, felt his knuckles clench to the contours of his glass and he looked down at it, at how stark his hands looked. The bar separator creaked when Junno flipped it and Nakamaru drew back a bit when Junno simply slid behind the bar beside him, resting a hand near the sink and leaning right against its counter.

Nakamaru only dared look at him then. He cut a very specific figure of heat that was way too close. He could still taste him along the edges of his tongue and his breath flew out in a rush when he finally looked at Junno. His glass tipped, felt like it slipped right out of his hands and hit the short distance to the bottom of the sink with a clunk.

“Liar,” Junno offered like one would remark upon the weather to a stranger.

Nakamaru felt a wavering tether in him snap when a smile, nervous as anything, crept over his mouth. “Whatever,” he muttered mulishly, looking back down, smile still insistently tugging at his lips. “It’s not like it would ever be--I mean you’re not even...er...that is to say, you’ve had girlfriends,” he told him and felt a moment’s disconcertion when Junno’s smile quirked and that edge of entitled condescension swam in. “Several,” he added lamely.

“Yes, well, they were all really attracted to me,” Junno supplied with a sweeping philosophical gesture.

Nakamaru stared at him.

“I…” Junno edged closer on the counter until the hand he’d placed by the sink was now on the other side of Nakamaru’s hip. “I liked that.”

This gave him some pause. “What, you mean you’re not just attracted to…” No drink on this planet could give him the composure to say it outright. It wasn’t _proper_.

Junno leaned over. “I’m attracted to people who are attracted to me,” he whispered, emphasising the words with his special injection of smarm that reminded Nakamaru how he’d never been sure what it was about that that he liked so much. Junno laughed to himself, straightening up and considering his own words with a serene look. “There are exceptions, but altogether when it’s someone like you, it really helps.”

Nakamaru remembered to breathe suddenly and he watched Junno’s mouth make the words and couldn’t quite deride their meaning entirely. _Someone like him?_ “That’s...absolutely the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Junno’s smile transformed; he was still leaning in his space and Nakamaru felt one finger touch up the side of his hip, subtle enough to seem accidental, but overt enough that it drew Nakamaru closer. “So you like me?” he practically purred.

Nakamaru was fond of the look on Junno’s face, but it was ridiculous and he couldn’t resist. He reached up, got a nice fistful of Junno’s shirt lapel and Junno’s response was to hook his fingers into Nakamaru’s belt and pull him so they were crushed together in the tight space between the bar counter and the shelves. It was Junno who leaned in for it, but it was Nakamaru who kissed him. Junno sighed some and pulled him close by the hips, which made Nakamaru only grab him tighter in return. All it took was Junno’s whole frame relaxing against him for Nakamaru to feel the full musculature of his body, tenuous and sublime, every motion it took for Nakamaru to force his mouth open and slip his tongue over Junno’s lower lip. He felt it, the taut tension in his stomach flexing against him and Junno’s hands, fingers spreading just over his tailbone as they smoothed under his sweater.

Nakamaru lost himself all over again. He didn’t remember when he got a hand in Junno’s hair, just that he’d even bit Junno’s lip, scraped his teeth over the plump indent of his lower lip and Junno uttered an enthusiastically pained sound and let Nakamaru’s thigh dig between his. It felt like a new wave of intoxication, dazzling his every sense, because he was in Junno’s mouth and Junno’s hands slid up, dragged palms up the ridges of his back at the same time while the denim of Junno’s jeans scraped up his leg when he pushed Junno back against the counter. The contact added so insidiously to Nakamaru’s high that he reached down and grabbed at Junno’s thigh just as Junno’s tongue met his, guiding him back in with a lick that was surprisingly dextrous. Nakamaru ached for him, felt a bit of a marvel when Junno let him insinuate his hips between his spreading legs and Nakamaru pushed the heel of his hand against the inside of Junno’s thigh and bent him backward until Junno was practically climbing him with his hard, smooth fingers still shifting helplessly up his back while Nakamaru devoured him.

It was that connection that changed everything, the front of Nakamaru’s trousers grazed right against what was the oncoming of an unmistakable shape, now hard pressed so tight to the inseam of Junno’s jeans. Nakamaru closed his lips and tried a hesitant shift, raked a startling contact that sent a sizzle all the way through him and Junno broke off with a sudden overcome groan, arching in a way Nakamaru could never have created in his mind.

It didn’t stop him and as Junno tilted his head back and clenched his thighs around Nakamaru’s hips, Nakamaru mouthed down the sharp incline of his throat, licked a trail over Junno’s Adam’s Apple throbbing with his ecstatic and soft groans. Nakamaru was hard, could feel himself pressed over fabric, skimming the rough mound of Junno’s inseam and Junno rocked until the hard surface of the counter which made him flinch and roll the shape of his dick up Nakamaru’s.

Nakamaru clutched him for that, almost having to go still and Junno improvised; his knee brushed Nakamaru’s ribs until Nakamaru was nearly on top of him. His other hand grabbed the counter’s edge behind Junno as he pulled himself up to close his lips over skin, taste the salt tang and earthy touch of Junno’s cologne. He breathed him in and only paused to grit his teeth because whatever it was Junno was doing to him, he wanted it faster and harder.

He swore. Junno’s thigh under his grip was malleable even through the skin-tight fabric of his jeans and Nakamaru wanted to feel all of him; almost couldn’t take it. Junno’s response to his mouth and his touches was positively perfect; like they’d always meant to do this. He was heavy, though, a good size bigger than Nakamaru himself, but he moved so flexibly when he arched that Nakamaru was able to touch more, reach a hand down his thigh, reach the curve of his ass and squeeze, shove himself against the hot contours between his legs practically wrapped around him.

Junno swallowed and leaned back, the both of them out of breath and gazing at each other in a minute touch of awe. Who would’ve known it could ever be so good between them?

Junno’s hooded gaze was scintillating, masked under the shadow of the dimly-lit pub and it was only then that Nakamaru was frightfully aware of what they were doing and where. He was hard and Junno felt and _tasted_ too good to let go, but he was overwhelmed by an abrupt and a bit paralysing self-consciousness.

“I can’t,” he hissed, even when Junno moved at an odd animal like grace to curve and brush his lips over the corner of Nakamaru’s, smiling into it like Nakamaru had given a wonderful thing. Nakamaru inclined his head towards it, unable to stop the heartstop of desire filling his lungs, seeing stars, wondering why he’d waited so damnably long to admit he wanted this. “ _You_ ,” he uttered like a curse. “I can’t do this here.”

Junno’s smile spread over his lips, like a balm. “So the rumours are true.”

Nakamaru didn’t know what on earth he was talking about, but he bit him on principle. “All lies, actually. Sit up, would you? We should go.”

Junno looked much aggrieved, but he obeyed. His hair was all over the place, sticking up on one side where Nakamaru had grabbed its usually well-coiffed surface; pupils wide like melting black holes and his lips were bright pink, kissed out and swollen. A smug-looking mess. Nakamaru thought he looked beautiful, but he wasn’t about to start reciting vows or anything.

It was weird disengaging himself from Junno then, still burning for him but sensibility had the better of him. Even weirder was cleaning up after themselves, putting the chairs back and clearing their table.

Junno caught his eye at one point from behind the counter where he was washing their glasses. He had his hands in the sink and he was watching Nakamaru perform the menial task of wiping the table down with a rag; he had a nice, still dazed and proper drunk and lazy look about him when Nakamaru sneaked a peek over his shoulder at him. His eyes clearly observing Nakamaru’s backside; he gave a bit of a grin, one side of his mouth flying up guiltily. Nakamaru turned his back quickly, couldn’t even scrounge up an immediate reaction as he resumed wiping the table, face burning.

When they called a cab and locked up, there was distinct air of something unfinished yet untouchable, but they were outside now. They sat side by side on the curb. Nakamaru had his coat, gloves and touque on and their separation was palpable. Junno sat there, wrapped in a trench coat and scarf, worrying at his lower lip as they looked at the oncoming grey line of the morning sky.

“Think it’ll be sunny today?” he remarked a bit abruptly and Junno’s head swivelled on him, startled. He gave a noncommittal head-shake and curled his knees up, resting his chin on them. Nakamaru wanted to reach out, do something to signify--what exactly?

Then the cab rolled into the parking lot and Junno was first to get in. Nakamaru slid in after him but Junno was already on the other side, practically pressed to the window. He only glanced at Nakamaru when the cab driver asked them for their destination.

Nakamaru blinked, uncertain. The cab was warmer than the outdoors and Junno looked snug and sleepy; content but silent and for once, Nakamaru couldn’t read him at all. He stuttered over Junno’s apartment address, but the cab driver seemed to grasp what he’d said. He could swear Junno shot him another brand of smile before looking out the foggy, grey window.

 

 

*

 

 

 

They’d been relatively quiet going up to Junno’s place. The only explanation being that there was little they could say that wouldn’t be infused with much more than they wanted to let on; certainly not in public if anything.

When Junno opened the door to his apartment, he stood out of the way, let Nakamaru pass him into the entrance hall to which where Junno followed, kicking off his shoes and setting them neatly in line with his other sneakers. Nakamaru followed suit and wandered in after him. It must have been pushing six a.m. because Junno’s windows were spilling cold, morning light over every surface of his furniture.

Junno turned as he removed his coat. “Do you want some water or…”

Nakamaru didn’t know what he wanted--well, he did, but now in this apartment, the two of them alone, nearly sober and with the stark light of day blasting his actions near an hour ago with some level of solemnity, he felt awkward and unfit to simply reach for Junno like he wanted to.

“Yeah, water sounds good.”

Junno slipped out of his scarf and hung both in a small closet, padding across his living room to the kitchen in just socks. His shirt was awry and he looked rather drab; Nakamaru didn’t want to think how _he_ must look.

He listened to the tap running and the sound of Junno fiddling around with cups in the kitchen as he stepped forward on the wood-paneled floor, fingers playing at the buttons of his coat, unsure whether to take it off or not.

Junno returned with a full glass, seemed to take in Nakamaru like he was seeing him for the first time. He handed Nakamaru the glass and hovered near him, hands in his jeans pockets, eyes darting off.

Nakamaru drank it, deciding only once the glass was to his lips that he’d need to drink it all to give himself time to think. What on earth did Junno expect him to do? Everything had seemed so heated an hour ago; he was still a bit stiff in his joints, reckless of him. He drank until the glass was empty and he was looking at Junno through the bottom, a blurry object standing close, but not too close in a fit of promise and unfulfilled expectations.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, handing the empty glass back to Junno.

Junno smiled grimly, taking the glass and two sidling steps toward the kitchen, a question on the verge of his lips and Nakamaru waited politely, helplessly, hoping it would be the right question.

The potential subsided and Junno stopped looking at him; moved quietly for the kitchen again.

Nakamaru dropped his face into his hand, massaging the bridge of his nose with abject frustration. This was impossible!

Junno emerged again to more silence, but this time he had a rather hearty look about him, something having recharged him in the kitchen and he lifted one shoulder in a sort of half-shrug, gaze bleeding a unique agony right into Nakamaru’s stomach. “So, I’m gonna go to bed--,” he began.

Nakamaru put forth his best smile. “Yes, of course; you must be tired; we’ve been up all night, after all” he supplied woodenly, realising only a second too late that that had been completely the wrong thing to say. Junno gave a very brief, barely perceptible flinch as he nodded in agreement.

They stood there, blinking in the aftermath of so many things having gone terribly wrong and Nakamaru was already mentally trying to absolve the both of them. Of course it would wind up like this; of course they had always been on different pages. Of course.

Junno made a vague gesture that could have encompassed his outdoor balcony as well. “You can stay over... if you want?”

“Oh, no…no,” Nakamaru was sure his entire face was glowing from how flushed he felt. No one had ever made him feel this idiotic before. He couldn’t bear it. “I can show myself out; just wanted to…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He walked out as briskly as would be possible in socks on a slippery floor. It was when he’d slid into his shoes again and stepped out that he saw himself, in all his humiliation, closing the door with the softest ‘click’ that he was suddenly and forcibly reminded of Junno leaving his place like this, quick and quiet, pretending he was leaving someone sleeping inside.

Nakamaru had figured it would be more like a math equation that the both of them being so awkward would have cancelled it all out. His forehead touched the closed door as he dropped his hand from the doorknob.

All this. All of one night going so miraculously and still, they’d come full circle. He hated the ‘of course’s’ of it; hated that some part of him couldn’t even believe that for once, things could go exactly as he didn’t dare hoped they would.

Nakamaru thought of Junno’s flinch; his calculated hearty smile when he’d exited the kitchen and for the first time in never, he clenched his fist, pressed it in one soft motion against the door and shut his eyes muttering a succinct, “Fuck it.”

He opened the door again.

 

 

*

 

 

He beelined straight for the bedroom, his jacket rustling with him and the shuffle of his footsteps filling the silence he’d left behind, the silence Junno now filled with a quiet sigh under his bedcovers.

When Nakamaru stepped past the threshold of his doorway, he saw Junno straighten and peek a tousled head from the blankets. “Nakamaru,” he said, on the edge of groggy. “Did you forget someth--”

“Don’t talk,” he practically ordered. He’d already pulled off his touque and moved to remove his gloves before reaching to unbutton his jacket. “We’ll never do this if we...talk.”

Junno sat up properly, letting his coverlet drop to his waist, a blue-shadowed bareness to his sharp chest had Nakamaru mentally backpedaling for a brief intimidated moment. He girded himself stalwart, practically clenching his teeth as he pulled his sweater off over his head. Junno kept silent, but his eyes followed Nakamaru’s every move, glimmering in the pale dark.

When Nakamaru was down to just his trousers, he stopped and took a severed breath. “I feel absolutely ridiculous,” he confessed a bit grumpily.

Junno’s next grin was like a focused beacon. “Come here then,” he replied, pulling the bedclothes back and patting the mattress to his left. “We can just cuddle.”

Nakamaru let out a quick, surprised laugh. There was no way he’d be able to simply lie with him, but it was a step in the right direction. He rounded the bed and climbed under the sheets where Junno had lifted them. He shifted over the mattress, delighted by the warmth Junno’s body heat bathed him in. Junno uncurled himself from the other end and pressed the full length of his frame against Nakamaru, making a light, happy sound.

They wound up in a bit of a cluster with Junno’s back to him because Nakamaru pushed against him like a magnet, winding a clumsy arm around his ribs and the other pillowing his arm. He slipped one leg between his as Junno’s silky head rested under his chin. Junno had taken off his jeans and Nakamaru could only take a moment to register all the available naked skin brushing his chest and frustratingly, the fabric of his trousers. His fingers curled over Junno’s stomach, almost afraid to touch but knowing that in a moment he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Junno’s legs stretched around his thigh, an innocent motion where every taut tendon and satin inch of him pressed a crazy heat flash all down Nakamaru’s front. Nakamaru sighed, utterly torn up on the inside as he buried his face against the open expanse of Junno’s neck. He paused before brushing his nose against the shallow audible beat, nuzzling a steady heat before dropping sudden, rushed kisses..

Junno’s arm shifted, elbow over Nakamaru’s forearm until he felt Junno’s larger fingers close over the back of his hand. At first he thought Junno meant to simply hold him there, but once he closed his hand over Nakamaru’s, he guided his hand up his stomach, let Nakamaru’s fingers graze over his navel. He could hear Junno’s breath coming quickly and Nakamaru’s heart was hammering killing patterns on the inside of his chest. He uncurled his fingers only as Junno pressed his hand right on the waistline of his boxers, and Nakamaru took that as an avid invitation and sidling his hand in under the elastic, edged past the curls of hair trailing down and felt a brand new excitement when Junno gasped and melted back against him.

It was so liberating, being in the dark privacy under the sheets and it moved Nakamaru to close Junno in his fist, jerking slowly and coaxing him hard, mouthing up his shoulder as Junno tensed, fingers slipping back to Nakamaru’s wrist, gripping tighter. Nakamaru shifted his thigh further between Junno’s open legs, trying to grind closer, already hard. He still went slow, savoring the weight in his grip and the way Junno rocked back and forward, going helpless and starting up a series of throaty sounds.

When Junno began his own insistent rhythm of rocking into Nakamaru’s fist, Nakamaru’s hips ground forward compulsively. His erection kept digging this frustrating line down the incline of Junno’s ass through the thin fabric of his boxers. Nakamaru’s palm grazed the head of Junno’s dick as he slid upward, only slick with sweat and the cling of pre-ejaculate. Junno twisted, mouth open and eyes shut, lips searching for Nakamaru’s as he nuzzled back, keeping them moving as one between Nakamaru’s now hissing breaths. Nakamaru closed his lips over the corner of Junno’s, meeting Junno’s tongue with his own, tasting Junno’s new groans. Junno moved in a desperate and sinuous line, arching so his head dropped back in the pillows. Nakamaru kissed him sideways, licking along the edge of Junno’s hot mouth as he squeezed his fist tighter. Junno’s other hand scrambled up the sheets and fisted the pillow over his head and he fell apart for a bright and shuddering second.

Nakamaru loved this effect, lapping along Junno’s tongue, unable to keep from pushing himself up on his arm, using the other pillow as leverage so he could bend over Junno, still working him over until Junno was twisting, trying to get Nakamaru on top of him. It became a brief struggle, neither fighting the other so much as becoming a mess of limbs with Junno sucking on Nakamaru’s lower lip, taking it in his teeth, only breaking away when Nakamaru’s tongue flicked over the tender part of where he’d bit.

Junno let go of his wrist, gasping off their kiss with a deep growl, snapping his teeth clenched as Nakamaru started to flex his wrist, slickly massaging up the cluster of veins under the head of Junno’s cock. He let go and reached back, pulling a bit fruitlessly at Nakamaru’s belt buckle, fingertips just skimming Nakamaru’s erection with a voiceless plea. Nakamaru pulled his leg out from between Junno’s and let him roll back out from under the sheets as he crawled on top of him, heel of his hand pressing up Junno’s lower stomach, sticky with pre-ejaculate.

He could see it now: Junno stretched out under him, hard, but like living elasticity, sandy marble skin stretched over the shape of his ribs and the gleaming grooves of his chest, nipples dark and pert. He was laying back almost sprawled, black hair all over the place and in his eyes, stating a languid intent. Nakamaru leaned back on his heels to take it all in, finally given the chance to properly touch and understand all these angles he’d become enamored with.

Nakamaru didn’t hesitate anymore; he reached for the waistline of Junno’s boxers, dragged them down so Junno’s knees bent and kicked out of them while Nakamaru began to undo his belt and trousers, then underwear, pulling them down and slipping out of the both of them, shaking them off the edge of the bed.

He bent forward and Junno's fingers dove into his hair as he arched up for more kisses. Nakamaru groaned as his now bare cock brushed up the skin of Junno's lower stomach, working up a shocking and delicious friction and Junno rutted under him, turning their kiss into several because Junno's hot palms snaked from Nakamaru's hair, yanking even as he let go with his fingers curling out of sheer bliss, to down his back. Nakamaru dragged a hungry trail with his tongue along the jut of his clavicle, rocking as he did it. Junno’s palms shook even as they smoothed down to his tailbone, grabbing at his ass to draw him in, trapping them in a perfect cling.

Junno bent his knees, curving one leg over his and undulating, rolling from his back down to his hips as Nakamaru had curved down to bite small nibbles and kisses down between his pectorals. His arms swam back on the bed, sweeping across the sheet as Nakamaru went lower, sucking and kissing the curve under his ribs to his stomach. Nakamaru glanced up at him, mouth open and panting over Junno’s navel and caught him watching with a look of utter abandon, eyes dark and wide. He watched that same hungry gaze dart up quickly to the ceiling, his shivers doubling when he did. A little puzzled, Nakamaru followed his gaze, tilting his head up.

Then he saw it.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before because it was sort of the most obvious thing he had ever seen. A mirror. It spanned the length of the ceiling and reflected them, Nakamaru’s own naked back, crouched over Junno, spread and evocative like he’d splayed himself out specifically for this reason. Nakamaru looked back down at Junno incredulously and Junno’s response was to give him a lopsided sheepish smile, gleaming and excited, like Nakamaru had found out a particularly flattering secret of his.

“You’re unbelievable,” he swore, bowing his forehead against Junno’s chest with a shaky laugh. Junno’s head fell back with how _he_ laughed, much more rich and happy.

Nakamaru shook his head and went lower, tasting places he’d already licked but roving over and over as he kept watching him. He wouldn’t stop, _couldn’t_ because he kept finding himself so awed at the curl of want trickling down his spine when Junno sucked in his lower lip and made a soft little keen of a sound.

It seemed on a whim as he would only really know why he’d done it a while later, but with one of Junno’s legs casting up his ribs, Nakamaru had straightened and grabbed his calf; let the ‘v’ of his hand follow to Junno’s knee. He inclined his head against it, kissed a tender spot, a strange barely noticeable flaw in his bone structure. Junno’s fists by his head clenched and Nakamaru saw the tension ripple down the muscles of his stomach before a deep laugh bubbled from his lips, a strange relief in it and Nakamaru could almost feel something fall right between them. Nakamaru smiled against Junno’s thigh before lifting it to his shoulder. Junno’s hips twitched up reflexively when Nakamaru’s other fingers drew small circles along the crook of his thigh to the dip toward his cock. Junno sobbed a little, and Nakamaru knew he wanted to fuck him, knew Junno would love that; would love being held down on his back and curved double. The thought made Nakamaru circle his thumb hard against Junno’s perineum until Junno’s head snapped back into the pillows again, whole body forming a gorgeous, begging curve and the rip-cord muscle of his other thigh under Nakamaru’s palm bunched and shifted as he leaned into it.

Nakamaru licked his lips compulsively. “Do you have…” he began, unsure how to word it, alarmed at how throaty his voice sounded.

“Mm?” Junno’s lashes fanned, blinking back to some reality as he reached up to push his own hair back, making it so it stuck up. “Oh! Yeah, actually it’s…” Nakamaru watched him make a quick gesture over toward the night table.

It took an odd contortion because Junno wouldn’t let go and Nakamaru persisted with a half-hearted crawl, which tipped Junno over and forced him to collapse face-first at the end of the mattress in the world’s most undignified heap. Junno started up a fit of the giggles with a muffled, “Sorry!” Nakamaru refused to respond and determinedly reached into the drawer, plucking out at a couple things—Junno was ridiculous with hair gel!—before he finally touched a thinner bottle and pulled it out. Amid Junno’s soft, lingering chortles, Nakamaru twisted around and laid a palm flat on Junno’s chest, which had its desired effect, Junno went a bit wide-eyed, startled and still, laughter forced out of him and a faint bemused smile curving his features only after the initial shock.

Only then did Nakamaru smile properly, leaning back and dropping the bottle beside them before spreading Junno’s legs, using every bit of his strength to drag him in position and Junno let him, looked at him through his eyelashes and licked his lips, a very deliberate thing to do and the heat jumped into Nakamaru’s middle and pooled right to his dick. Nakamaru reached for the bottle, unscrewing the cap as quick as he could manage, spilling it into the crook of his fingers. He dredged a wet touch down Junno’s perineum and practically thrust with Junno when he began to buck towards it. He took it slow, drew with his middle finger, slipped slick around the tight muscle, pushed a delicate, but purposeful circle. Junno groaned, a perfect flush, grinding for it harder and harder, gaze transfixed on Nakamaru between the moments he’d be overcome and bare his throat, choking on a thick swallow. Nakamaru crawled up until he was hovering over and had bent his legs to his chest. Junno moaned and blinked up at him deliriously.

“Open your mouth,” Nakamaru whispered at him, still circling, teasing, savouring the way Junno was beginning to writhe, trapped under him and making sharp aborted sounds. Junno opened his mouth for him and Nakamaru leaned down and devoured him at the same time he finally slipped in. The beautiful, tremulous moan that shook out of Junno right then made the wait so much worth it. Nakamaru licked into his mouth, digging in to the knuckle and Junno’s hands came from clutching the pillows over his head, grabbed up Nakamaru’s back.

He heard Junno swear as he rocked with him and it was like heaven suddenly, the both of them clinging, sticky and Nakamaru wanting him so badly it hurt. He added another finger and Junno clutched at him, hips jerking convulsively and every inch of him jumping violently against Nakamaru, but Nakamaru kept on, scissoring his fingers, swallowed tight in full hotness. He felt Junno gasping half-words against his ear, searing breaths and pleas and Nakamaru didn’t think he knew how to get tired of that. Was alarmed at himself for loving everything about Junno just in these moments, for working him so vigorously, for how perfect it felt with his fingers so wet and running along Junno’s soft insides closed around him.

“Oh, damn,” he hissed, reaching back and lifting himself in to replace his fingers in Junno.

“…mmplease,” Junno said, completely gone, just a dazed stare as he pulled Nakamaru in with the hold of his knees and a desperate grab up his back. “ _God_ , please,” as Nakamaru slid right in, and had to bury his face in Junno’s neck, growling out a word he couldn’t remember the next second.

Junno rode it through with him, closing lips around Nakamaru’s earlobe in a passionate, vulnerable state. He heard a whisper a lot like his first name and Nakamaru groaned over Junno’s throat, and bottomed out, striking something in Junno that had them both a paralysed mess for electric moments. It was too much; Nakamaru shut his eyes, snapping his hips in just as Junno rolled his, sensual and coiling around Nakamaru like he was trying to climb him or blend or that no matter what they did, it wasn’t close enough. The mattress shuddered under them, and Junno reached back to grab the headboard.

Nakamaru was blind, could feel every sensation crash through him, like a bullet shattering through every nerve. Junno’s hand flew in a sudden moment, clutched the back of Nakamaru’s neck, held on tight like it was his last attachment to earth. Warmth and the throb of Junno’s cock licking up his stomach let him know Junno was coming, long and hard, merciless in it. He shivered, practically wailing and Nakamaru grabbed him steady by his thigh as he thrust, and felt the head of his cock grazing silk and he couldn’t take it. Junno shaking under him was one thing, but the look in his eyes when he went limp, eyes wide, slack-jawed and panting. The complete worship in his stare, startled by whatever had just happened to him, it pushed Nakamaru over, hit him like a blow to the gut. He shut his eyes, felt Junno stroking his neck, thumb brushing his pulse and for that bright, white moment it was all he could register against the strike of his orgasm, rippling and delicious. He fucked Junno through it, gasped words and not-words until it was over.

He collapsed, letting Junno’s legs drop, panting against his hammering chest, a different cadence to his own racing one. Junno bent a knee, the side of it brushing the back of Nakamaru’s thighs in a lazy, wonderful numbing touch. Fingers were in his hair again and Nakamaru couldn’t resist burying his face against that chest with a sated sigh.

“I knew I’d like you,” Junno murmured. “I’ve been telling myself for years…” and Nakamaru heard the words rumble from the inside of Junno’s ribs, a speaker rising and falling rhythmically. “...that’d like you so _so_ much.”

“You did _not_ know, you crazy person,” Nakamaru replied with an out of breath sardonicism and Junno laughed like Nakamaru told the best jokes in the world and he was god... or something. Maybe. Nakamaru felt like it.

It was just simply because Junno, owner of ceiling mirrors, obnoxiously self-loving solos, a sexual drive for people who wanted him, a man whose biggest crush had always been himself , had actually admitted to really _liking_ him and well, where opinions counted, Nakamaru thought he must really be something else if he’d somehow got Taguchi Junnosuke to like him.

“Another go in a bit?” Junno whispered into the air complacently , wittering away like he was finishing a conversation. “I thought I might bend you over for a bit...or if you want to watch the mirror this time...”

Nakamaru conclusively covered Junno’s mouth with the palm of his hand as his eyes drifted shut, wondering vaguely if vanity was a kink.

 

 


End file.
